“Good morning, ladies,” Adora greets them as if the conversation taking place across the room is not occurring.
Again, I begin to wonder if I’ve been seriously under instructed as to the social norms of the feyn.
I startle when I hear the general say under his breath, “Nothing you could add or remove from your form could convince me to consider you, Ishara.”
“Xey,” Awri issues the warning under her breath.
I know the tone, and I’d seen the tightly wound stance of her body thousands of times in my years at the La’tari keep. Though I’m unaware to what extent, there is danger here.
Had I not seen the mild flush in Ishara’s cheeks or noted the quick contraction and loosening of her fists at her sides, I might have missed the subtle chill of anger in her tone when Ishara speaks again.
“Now General, is that any way to speak to a future sister of your king?”
While the general’s face remains a sheet of unprovoked granite, Awri’s lip pulls up in a near snarl. An odd contrast of beauty and anger displayed across her features.
With the slightest backward tilt of his head and raise of his brows, the general is looking down his nose at the female before him, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips.
“Myking? Is he not your king as well?” he says.
Though her back stiffens defiantly, Ishara wisely takes a small step in retreat. If such a thing were uttered on La’tari soil, it would mean a death sentence for the one who had spoken it, and a long, uncomfortable life for anyone associated. No matter the continent, there will never be room for questionable loyalties in times of war.
I remind myself that we are at peace, tenuous as it may be, and tuck away the knowledge that even among their elite there are alliances to be had.
“Of course he ismyking,” she says fiercely.
“Then I don’t need to remind you to choose your words more carefully. Otherwise, some might think you are in rebellion of the crown. Or worse.”
Whispers break out among the audience of females lingering by the front door and Ishara’s confidence falters, as she takes another step in withdrawal.
“I will write to the king and tell him of what, I assume, is your mother’s request for a match between your house and the crown. Trust that I will explain in meticulous detail every word spoken here today.”
She pales at that, and I wonder what her king will do to her upon his return. There is no doubt in my mind that the general will send the letter, happily.
To my surprise, and judging by the look on Awri’s face, to hers as well, Ishara falls to her knee in a graceful flutter of silk. She holds her hands above her head, palms up as her gaze falls to the floor. An offering of submission.
I’m not entirely convinced the general will accept her defeat. His face holds no sign of being amused or even satisfied with his triumph. Only a small flicker in the line of his jaw and a hard glint in his eyes give any hint as to what the male might truly be thinking.
“Save your apology for the king,” he says in a measured, harsh tone.
Slowly, as if it pains her, Ishara rises to her feet. Her eyes take in the measure of the room, of those who have witnessed her shame. Defeated, but with a defiant stride, she steps toward the door, reaching for the handle.
“Ishara,” he says, and her eyes meet the general’s once more, “I suggest you disinterest yourself in your pursuit of me.”
She stiffens at the command but offers the general a small nod before issuing a command to the ladies who continue to watch nearby, “Forget everything you’ve seen here today.”
Though I can’t fathom anyone in the room simply forgetting the spectacle she’s made of herself, her threatening tone stands my arm hair on end, a chill rushing up my spine as she departs.
I nearly jump when Adora slaps her notebook closed beside me and with a cheerful smile announces, “All done.”
And as if Ishara were in fact the queen of A’kori, the ladies, who had only moments ago been witness to her social obliteration, begin bustling about the shop, examining the thick bolts of delicate fabrics.
Odd.
It seems there will be no end to my surprise when it comes to the social antics of the feyn. I begin toward the door, my feet slowing beneath me as I observe Awri and the general beside her.
Had I met them in this moment, I might have assumed Awri to be the military commander. Her gaze never leaves Ishara as she disappears down the cobbled streets in a sea breeze billow of crimson fabric. Perhaps it is her keen feyn sight that keeps her eyes lingering on the streets long after the female’s departure.
“We are done here,” she says to no one in particular, before offering Adora a warm smile and a quick embrace.
